


everyday, it's changed since then

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 20:18:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6768517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thierry and Bojan reunite in Stoke. This time, Bojan is the only one wearing a jersey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	everyday, it's changed since then

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meretricula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meretricula/gifts).



> This started off as this really deep and sad reflection of all the young Barca kids thrown aside and abandoned to a cruel and painful fate. But then I watched this video of Bojan and Muni up on Stoke's yt channel, and I don't know what they were doing, but they looked happy. Not like former superstars making the best of what they had left, but genuinely happy. So I wrote this instead.
> 
> Dear giftee, thank you for choosing this story and for the push it gave me to finish it. I hope you enjoy it. Thank you also to the organizers of the Footie Spring fling, for their kindness and encouragement. 
> 
> Let us remind ourselves briefly, of why this ship was so popular way back in the day: [x](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/8c/31/90/8c3190af1e8e7becd252bf2326ff41ec.jpg), [x](https://headbandsandheartbreak.files.wordpress.com/2011/10/thierry-henry-bojan-krkic-large-msg-120896218715.jpg), [x](http://40.media.tumblr.com/460033e980f0a0cbadc57b9aaa1a338e/tumblr_n94xmbztEj1slhv73o8_r1_500.jpg), and [x](http://images1.fanpop.com/images/photos/2600000/Titi-and-Bojan-thierry-henry-2646695-592-357.jpg). Goddamnit.
> 
> Title is from the Stars song, "The first five times"

 

 

Thierry hurries the last few steps to avoid Stoke’s sprinkler system meeting his impeccable grey suit.

It’s not his first pitch-side interview since he became a pundit, but it’s still something he gets to do as more of a novelty. Apparently it’s enjoyable to watch him banter with old rivals or make younger players trip all over themselves and he’d never complain about standing on a pitch again, even if it’s in leather shoes instead of cleats.

Still, he’s not sure what he’s doing in Staffordshire of all places. The briefing contained the words ‘final resting ground for great FC Barcelona youth’ and he’d stopped reading after that, biting back a sharp comment.

The cameraman, barely more than a boy, really, always blushing when Thierry asks him a question, looks up from his instrument to smile at him.

“Didn’t you used to play with Bojan, Mr. Henry?” and Thierry nods, absently, because it’s still so strange, thinking of Bojan in anything but _blaugrana_. He’d been irrevocably connected to Barcelona in Thierry’s head; a quiet smile on warm mornings on the training pitch, a smudge at the corner of his eye on Saturday nights.

Those days feel like they were decades ago. Now Bojan plays for Stoke City and Thierry wears a suit instead of a jersey. Weird how these things go.

 

*

 

It does make him happy that as soon as Bojan sees him, his face lights up with a smile and he passes everyone else to go where Thierry is waiting. Thierry reaches out for a hug automatically and Bojan saves him from embarrassment by returning it enthusiastically, plastering his sweaty body against Thierry’s front.

Looking down at the top of his head, Thierry realizes he’s managed to forget exactly how small Bojan is in comparison, but the rest of it still feels familiar; Bojan’s thin hands around his middle, his face tucked into Thierry’s jacket, the smell of sweat and freshly mown grass.

It takes a cough from his producer to bring him to his senses and they both take a step back, suddenly aware of the bustle on the pitch and the amount of cameras pointed at them. There’s a brief moment of confusion, where they’re not sure what language to start speaking in, but they finally settle on English, Bojan’s English is awkward but functional and Thierry uses Spanish to help him along. He’s rusty, but a lot of things are coming back to him now that Bojan is blinking up at him with bright eyes.

It’s one of the reasons he covertly takes his card from his pocket, gives it to Bojan when they finish the interview and shake hands, almost awkward now that the first wave had passed. Bojan has to go, answer other questions and change out of his jersey, and Crouch is waving for Thierry’s attention out of the corner of his eye.

Bojan takes the card, sends him one last grin before he disappears down the tunnel and Thierry hopes he’ll call.

 

*

 

Thierry’s phone chimes as soon as he walks through the door of his hotel room. The number is unfamiliar, but the text makes it clear enough who it’s from.

_Come over for dinner?_

Followed immediately by:

_Dress casual. If you wear a suit I’ll kick you out_

And:

_This is Bojan, btw_

Thierry amuses himself by imagining what Bobby might have to say about the youth of today (“In our days, people would at least call!”), because it keeps his mind over obsessing what to wear.

An hour later, he’s ringing the doorbell of what is presumably Bojan’s house, since it’s the address he’d been given. It’s in a nice neighborhood. The houses are tall and beige, and all have carefully trimmed green lawns, including Bojan’s. Thierry tries to imagine Bojan carefully maneuvering a lawnmower, and finds that he can’t. Or at least, he can’t do it without imagining him shirtless for the viewing pleasure of the neighborhood housewives and househusbands, and that way lays madness. It always has.

Upon opening the door, Bojan’s welcoming smile immediately turns into a frown when he catches sight of Thierry’s button-down and expensive jeans.

“I should keep you on the doorstep for those,” he says, but is already moving aside to let him in. “I told you no fancy clothing, you’re making me feel underdressed.”

Thierry’s hand brushes across his stomach when he walks by. It’s a thin doorway.

“You just said no suit,” Thierry shrugs, toeing off his shoes at the shoe rack. “And I’m absolutely not wearing those.”

‘Those’ are a pair of sinfully ugly slippers, shaped like big fat football balls that Bojan is offering him with a cheeky grin.

“Was worth a shot,” he says, offering him a more normal pair instead. It’s got the Stoke logo on it, which Thierry feels like he should object to on principle. “It’s always a treat to see you not entirely put together.”

Bojan sounds like he’s joking, but there’s something in the line of his smirk, or maybe the blown nature of his pupils, that means he might not be. Thierry frowns at him, and very slowly, very deliberately, reaches up to undo the top button of his white shirt.

Bojan’s gaze immediately drops down to the revealed bit of skin, which is gratifying.

Less so, when all he does is turn around on his heel and stomp out of the hallway. Thierry follows, slowly, lingering over the photos on the wall. One in particular catches his eye, and he unhooks it gently, carrying it into the kitchen where Bojan is bent over a pot of something bubbling.

Bojan laughs when Thierry hands him the picture, and Thierry walks over to inspect the pots and pans. Bojan leans into his side where they stand at the stove, and it’s nice. Familiar.

“You know, the lads always ask about this picture when they come over,” he says ‘lads’ in English, accents flawless. “Some of them used to idolize you, and there I was, frolicking with you over in Barcelona at seventeen.”

“Sounds to me like you were living the dream,” Thierry says, bumps his hip gently into Bojan’s, grinning when it makes him laugh.

“Still so full of yourself, I see,” Bojan says, flicking him with a wooden spoon, “get away from my stove, Frenchman. I know the food is hardly up to your standards. Open the wine, I know you’re good at that.”

There’s a wine bottle laid out on the counter, along with a corkscrew. The label is Spanish, a good quality red, from what Thierry can see. He pauses halfway through unwinding the top to look at Bojan.

“Are you even allowed to drink?”

Bojan bursts out laughing. “I’m not 17 anymore, I hope you know that.”

“I do! But, if you have training tomorrow…”

“I do actually,” Bojan shrugs. “But a glass won’t hurt anyone. It’s not like the nutritionist will be knocking down my door if I break the rules a little bit.”

“If you say so. I’m going to have to stop you if you pull out some chocolate cake though, you have playing years ahead of you.”

“You’re just saying that so you’ll get to eat the whole cake,” Bojan snorts and Thierry leaves the bottle half opened to stick his head in the fridge.

“It’s not there!” he reports after a minute and Bojan shakes his head.

“Make yourself at home why don’t you,” Bojan says, but his grin takes the sting from the words, so Thierry grins back.

The thing is, it’s been hard to not slip into old habits from the moment he’d seen Bojan’s beaming smile across the pitch. Even the apartment has the same layout as the one Bojan had in Barcelona. The kitchen cabinets are a different color, but the coffee machine is as he remembers it, with Bojan’s preferred brand of coffee. Even the pasta Bojan’s working on is something Thierry’s eaten a few times before, suspects that it’s one of the few things Bojan can actually cook.

Bojan interrupts his musings by sticking a wooden spoon in front of his face. “Try it,” he says, “does it need more salt?”

Thierry doesn’t even think about it, reaches out to grip Bojan’s wrist to steady it and wraps his lips around the spoon. He’s far too old to seductively lick it.

“It’s perfect,” he says and watches in satisfaction as Bojan’s eyes dart away from his lips.

“You’re too old to seductively lick a spoon,” Bojan tells him, but he’s grinning, so Thierry waggles his eyebrows suggestively at him instead of answering.

They catch up all though dinner, then migrate to Bojan’s couch, trading gossip on mutual acquaintances and friends. They’ve got plenty of those, but eventually they come to a point when they run out of anecdotes about Muniesa’s dog and just sit in silence, each hanging onto an extra glass of wine.

“So,” Thierry breaks it, smiles easily at the way Bojan’s eyes widen minutely. Not everything is the same after all. Bojan’s features are sharper in the absence of his puppy fat, and he’s bigger now, bulkier. His shoulders might be wider than Thierry’s now, and it’s new, and exciting for it. It’s testing his restraint. “So, what are the chances of me scoring on a cold and rainy day in Stoke?”

He says it in English, but Bojan must understand it, because he chokes on his wine and coughs, but then he’s laughing, brilliantly, head thrown back to expose the skin of his throat, paler in the absence of Spanish sunshine.

“I should kick you out, just for that,” Bojan says, but he’s already putting his glass down on the coffee table, taking Thierry’s from his unresisting fingers to put it away too. “It’s not even raining.”

He gestures towards the window, where there’s suddenly an ominous rumble and then the soft sound of rain falling against the glass. Bojan snorts and Thierry beams at him.

“You can’t throw me out now,” Thierry points out, “I’ll freeze out in the rain. I’m an old man now, I’m very susceptible to the flu virus.”

“Of course you are,” Bojan snorts disbelievingly, but he’s pliant when Thierry puts a hand around his waist to pull him closer. “The Great Thierry Henry,” Bojan murmurs, but the look on his face is soft enough to take the sting from his words, “must everything go right for you?”

He twists, and with a smirk he’s sitting across Thierry’s knees to straddle him. The position brings back some memories, though Thierry’d been right; Bojan’s heavier now. It’s not unpleasant.

“I’ve never been under the impression that you were in any way impressed by my greatness,” Thierry says honestly, distracted by Bojan unbuttoning a few more buttons on his shirt and putting his hand under it. It rests, warm and solid, against the skin of his stomach.

Bojan reaches out with the other to run his knuckles gently against Thierry’s jawline and the look on his face is fond when he says, “You’d be surprised,” and kisses him.

Even the kisses are familiar. Bojan kisses the way Thierry likes it, firm, teasing presses of lips against lips, broken up with the occasional soft nip on his bottom lip. Bojan kisses the way Thierry taught him, and it makes something hot pool in the base of his belly, a hint of possessiveness, a twist of gentle fondness.

Bojan’s bedroom isn’t anything like a stuffy too-dark room in the middle of Barcelona, and when Bojan pushes him against the untucked sheets, Thierry lets him. His touches are sure, not traces of stumbling, but he’s still so unmistakably Bojan through it all, giggling into his mouth when Thierry finds the ticklish spot under his ribs again, and almost ripping off the button on Thierry’s jeans, because he’s too busy kissing him to focus on his hands.

There’s scar tissue on his shin that wasn’t there the last time Thierry touched it. At one point when they’re moving together, something in Thierry’s back pops so loudly that they both freeze, horrified, before descending into laughter when it becomes apparent that no emergency room visits will be needed.

But, it’s good. There’s comfort in re-learning someone you once knew so well, a shared intimacy greater for having been rediscovered. Not like coming home, exactly, but like returning to a far off place you loved, and realizing you hadn’t loved it any less while you were away.

Bojan settles in his arms, after, tucking his head under Thierry’s chin with a contented hum. Thierry reaches out for his hand and twines their fingers together, bringing them up to press a kiss against Bojan’s knuckles. He can feel Bojan’s answering smile against his neck and it makes him smile in turn.

“I seem to remember you scoring in Stoke. Multiple times,” Bojan murmurs, lips shaping the words on Thierry’s skin.

“I can’t believe that line worked,” Thierry says, grinning.

“It’s a good thing I’m easy for you,” Bojan giggles against his throat.

There’s a bit of silence before Thierry sighs softly. “Hey, Bo?”

“Hm?”

“Are you happy? Here, I mean.” The silence stretches out, broken by the insistent lash of rain against the windows. Thierry knows it might let up by morning, or it might not.

“Yeah,” Bojan murmurs, and there’s a slur in his words, hinting that he’s falling asleep. “They love me, I think. I don’t mind the cold, as long as I get to play, you know how it is.”

Thierry does.

“Italy was bad,” he tries again, and Bojan sighs.

“That’s football,” he says, “I bet retiring wasn’t pleasant for you either.” He tightens the hold against Thierry’s middle briefly, as if in apology, so Thierry lets it go.

“Yeah,” he sighs, then, “I wish I would have called more.”

Bojan laughs softly. “I wish you would have too. But it is what it is.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad.”

“I’m still sorry.”

Bojan hums in acknowledgement, presses a kiss against Thierry’s neck. “Okay,” he says.

“Just like that?”

“Well, I can still throw you out if you’re just going to keep me from sleeping. I have training tomorrow.”

“Okay, okay,” Thierry presses a kiss against Bojan’s hair and Bojan pushes impossibly closer as if in answer. “Can I come with?”

“To training?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure. I’d love to see how many of the boys stumble all over themselves when they see you. They probably had posters of you up on their walls.”

“Do you think they’ll know?”

“Know what?”

“That you had the real thing.”

“I don’t know. They might not be so impressed after I tell them how awful your pickup lines are.”

“You wouldn’t, _chere_.”

“I will if you don’t shut up.”

Thierry grins to himself, but goes quiet. The sound of Bojan’s even breaths and the beat of the rain against the windows slowly lulls him to sleep.

 

 

*

 

 

“Hey, Titi?”

“Hm?”

“Just don’t sign anything Hugens gives you tomorrow. He might try slip you a contract. You’re exactly his type.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is alternatively titled 'Can Thierry Henry score on a cold rainy day in Stoke?' and the answer is, of course he can, he's Thierry Henry. But actually, I don't think he has scored against Stoke at all, because they only got back into the Premier League in 2007, when he signed for Barca. So. Irony.
> 
> And honestly, I bet Mark Hugens would definitely try to sign him.


End file.
